The Principessa They Called a Whore

And so, I stood by the lectern for the entire class.

Under the weight of hundreds of pairs of eyes, I listened as Professor Croft dissected my "inferior lower-class nature" for an hour and a half.

When the bell finally rang, I began to move stiffly toward the door.

Tiffany, holding a cup of hot coffee, made a deliberate show of walking past the lectern.

"Oops!" she cried with fake surprise as she pretended to trip, sending the entire cup of scalding coffee splashing down my calf.

The liquid seared my skin, soaking into my shoe. I gasped, the pain sharp and blinding.

"Sorry, didn't see you standing there," Tiffany said with a dismissive shrug. "But really, you shouldn't block the path. Anyone with common sense knows that."

I looked to Professor Croft, who was gathering his notes.

He pushed his glasses up his nose and said coldly, "So clumsy you can't even avoid a simple obstacle. Ophelia, your presence severely detracts from the elite atmosphere of this university. My office, after class. I must seriously reconsider your scholarship."

In his office, Professor Croft sat behind his desk, casually twirling a pen.

"Ophelia, I've received reports of your… extracurricular activities. Engaging in improper transactions, corrupting the moral fabric of this institution."

He threw a stack of photos onto the desk—pictures of me getting into my family's luxury cars.

"Professor Croft, those are rumors," I said, taking a steadying breath. "Those are my family members in the photos."

"Family?" He let out a contemptuous snort. "My records indicate you're here on a full scholarship. Are Bentleys and Rolls-Royces part of the financial aid package now? Ophelia, don't insult my intelligence."

He rose and rounded the desk, stopping right in front of me.

"The university has a zero-tolerance policy for this kind of scandal. Expulsion is a certainty. However…" His voice dropped to a whisper, his gaze crawling over me, so invasive I felt it like a physical touch.

"I've always been a patron of the arts. If you were willing to become my 'private assistant,' I might be persuaded to let this slide. Come to my apartment tonight. We can have a... deeper discussion about art."

"Professor Croft." I took a step back, my voice turning to ice. "If I recall, you embezzled three hundred thousand dollars in university funds last month. And you have a substantial gambling debt with a Gallo family rival at an underground casino on the West Side, don't you?"

The temperature in the room plummeted.

Professor Croft's face flushed a dark, angry red.

"You… what did you say? You filthy, low-class bitch!"

He raised a hand to strike me, but I tore the door open and bolted.

Behind me, his roar echoed down the hall, "Ophelia, you're finished! I'll make sure you can't survive anywhere in Chicago!"

I burst out of the building and, in my panic, ducked into a narrow alley—a dead end, blocked by a high brick wall.

Heavy footsteps pounded behind me.

Troy and his goons blocked the entrance, cutting off my escape. He held a pair of gleaming industrial shears.